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A Room of One's Own

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I enter Parijat’s Room (a Room of One's Own, Feminist Memory Project, Photo Kathmandu 2018) for the second time in three hours. I scan the room, leaving not even an inch unfolded. During the first visit when I remained in the room for just a while, I saw this amazing installation that reminded me of Van Gogh’s “The Bedroom”.  As I enter this homage to an almost mythic figure, I take all the time in the world as I leisurely go through everything at display. I feel, to some extent, the aura of the woman who had spent her days in the room. What Parijat had achieved from within this room was unprecedented. Or, at least that was what we were lead to believe as secondary school students. Nonetheless, Parijat was a legend. She had won the Madan Puraskar, the epitome of Nepali Literature for Sirish Ko Phool which was also translated to English. The translation- The Blue Mimosa was even included in the curriculum of University of Maryland, USA. This captured my imagination more ...
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The Disruption

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As I woke up I saw that everything was different. How could it be? Nothing was ever different. Everything was absolute. Everything was constant. But not today. Today was...well, simply not possible. **** Every morning I woke up at six and stayed still for five minutes while everything else remained as it was the day before. The bed was always there. Beside the bed was a stand. On it was a bottle of water and a novel. A study table stood at the corner accompanied by a brown wooden chair. Adjacent to the table was a dresser leaning against the angry red wall. Opposite the bed were the windows. The drapes on it hid me from the outside world while the sun struggled to find its way in. Then, I would reach the windows and kindly let the sun in. The room lit. It happened over and over again. As far as I could remember the same routine followed, day in and day out. It was the same forever. Almost forever! **** Until today, everything was the same. But, today was different. Different...
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Narayanhiti

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Witnessing the lavishness and  the riches of the Narayanhiti I feel this hate surging within me I feel the blood boiling in my veins... When the country lived in hunger The children and the old died of cold They lived inside the high walls Feasting on the exotic dishes In their fancy glistening dishes of fine china and glass and gold and what not When people died of hot in Dhanusha And of cold in Jumla For the lack of hospitals and roads in Rukum and as Koshi flooded down south They rested in their imported cushions Controlling the temperature with the remote controls As they showed off the namesake halls And their trophy animals on the walls. Mahendra shoved down our mouth the khasa bhasa As he sent his sons and daughters further west If English was the language you so desired, If Nepali was not elite enough for you, If you always desired your sons and daughters to go to the Oxfords and the Cambridges Why the shenanigan ? Why Nepali? While people slept by the road in t...
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